


Pretend

by royaltyisshe64



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Boarding School, Bullying, But not in a sexual way - Freeform, Corporal Punishment, Emotional Hurt, First Crush, Gen, Heartbreak, Insecurity, Panic Attacks, Shyness, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teasing, baby freddie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-11-15 10:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18071720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royaltyisshe64/pseuds/royaltyisshe64
Summary: Seven-year-old Farrokh Bulsara is off to St. Peter's Boys School, thousands of miles from home. His mummy says it will be a great adventure, but he isn't sure. Not at all.orHow Farrokh became Freddie.





	1. You'll Never Be Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LydianNode](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/gifts).



August 1953

He understood why he had to go alone. Papa was very busy at the office and couldn’t possibly get away. Besides, he’d probably spend the whole trip scowling at his son, giving him that awful, disappointed look, clicking his tongue and hissing “Farrokh”. It was all the more awful because he was never quite sure what exactly he’d done to make his father shake his head and scold. Mummy had to be with Kash now, and Kash was far too little for such a big journey. That was how she’d explained it to him after Papa announced he was going away to school.

But Farrokh felt very small.

Papa said he’d spoken to the ship’s captain and that one of the stewards would look after Farrokh specially. If he needed anything at all, he was to push the button in his cabin and Prabodh would come to help him. It was a dreadful thing to do, but he’d summoned poor Prabodh four times the first night aboard. He just wanted to be sure someone was really there. That he wasn’t as alone as it felt on the inside.

_(He had tried so hard not to cling to Mummy when they left him sitting on that hard bed, blinking furiously and forcing his mouth into what he hoped was a convincing smile. A smile that said he was on a great adventure and wasn’t he lucky? Wasn’t this going to be terrific fun? But as the door clicked, control slipped out of his grasp. He couldn’t stop himself from running after them, from burying his face in Mummy’s skirt. Papa hated it when he got that way. He was making a scene. It didn’t matter that he was crying as quietly as he could. Mummy went down to the quay and Papa took him back to his cabin.)_

The young man didn’t get angry with him. Didn’t shout like Papa or sigh and tell him he must try to be brave like Mummy. _(Those words rang in his ears. They made his stomach twist into a knot, his cheeks flush, the tears start. He had to be brave. Mummy said so. Why couldn’t he just be brave?)_ Instead, strong arms wrapped around him and he was safe, soothing circles rubbed on his back gradually returning his heartbeat to a normal rate. Prabodh promised that he’d teach Farrokh to play table tennis tomorrow, when he had a break in his duties. He insisted it was no bother. Farrokh wanted so badly to believe him, but he was so often a bother. That’s why he had been sent away. There was something wrong with him – something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Papa knew it and so did Mummy, though she tried terribly hard not to be upset. It made Papa very cross. And so they wanted Kashmira instead. Farrokh had to go. No one had said it, but he felt it, gnawing at his heart till it ached.

He cried again when Prabodh left, screwing his eyes shut to make-believe his pillow was Mummy.

-

The next morning, Farrokh went to the shipboard nursery – a term at which he’d ordinarily bristle (he was nearly eight years old, after all, not a baby), but he was desperate not to be by himself for a second longer than necessary. Unfortunately, not being by himself here meant strangers: children he didn’t know and their parents, who hadn’t left them. And that thought made something inside him clench tight, forcing the air out of his lungs as he entered the room, and he could only inhale in shallow, shuddery bursts. He felt eyes on him. _(Felt, maybe imagined, rather than saw, because he kept his gaze carefully averted to the ground. If he looked up, he’d bolt right back out again and he mustn’t.)_ There had to be something he could do in here without speaking to anybody.

Farrokh glanced up a few times, furtively, still hoping to avoid eye contact with anyone. Other boys were already playing with all the blocks and cars; every single doll clearly had an owner who wouldn’t part with it. He couldn’t see anything to draw with and the thought of going to one of the grown-ups and asking paralyzed him.

This had been a dreadful idea.

Frozen by the door, his eyes began to well up and he willed himself to disappear. That seemed to be the only solution. He couldn’t just stand there until Prabodh came for him – boredom made that impossible. Farrokh would get the fidgets and then he’d get into trouble. _(Even though Papa wasn’t here. A reprimand would come from somewhere. Papa always knew these things, always saw.)_ He’d be a nuisance. _(Maybe one of the mummies here would be like his. Maybe he could cuddle. No, that was stupid. He couldn’t just cuddle someone without speaking to them first.)_ Panic started to rise in his chest.

A forceful tap on his shoulder nearly made Farrokh jump out of his skin.

“Hello. What’re you called?” It was one of the British children, a boy about his own age, looking at him expectantly.

A deep breath, and Farrokh carefully enunciated his name, just about managing a shaky smile. That was a mistake.

The boy laughed. “What a funny name! I can’t say that. And you’ve got funny teeth. You should be called ‘Bucky’. I shall call you ‘Bucky’. Jamie! David! Tony! Come here and meet Bucky.”

His face burned red with humiliation. Every instinct in his body was telling Farrokh to run. Run back to his cabin, lock the door, and never come out again. Refuse to emerge until the ship turned around and took him back to Zanzibar, where he – he didn’t belong there either, he realized – where Mummy was. But suddenly, there was something else – something that stiffened his spine, straightened his shoulders, kept his feet firmly planted. Something brave. Papa would only send him away again if he tried to return to his family. What choice did he have?

Courage was his only option.

-

It wasn’t as awful as he’d feared. The playmates that had been foisted upon him were loud and bossy, but they listened when Farrokh put his foot down, the forcefulness of his tone taking even him by surprise. Finally getting his hands on some paper and crayons, he found his niche in taking commissions; he was a much better artist than any of them and could quickly capture the flights of fancy dictated to him by what he tentatively thought of as his new friends. Drawings were snatched from his hands and shown excitedly to parents. Indignant at the prospect of not receiving credit for his handiwork, Farrokh cleared his throat. His attempt at an imperious glare was more effective than anticipated, a piece of information he filed away for later use.

They kept calling him ‘Bucky’, though. He hated it. He hated that awful little twinge in his chest every time he heard that word.

By the time Prabodh arrived to collect him, Farrokh still felt uncomfortable, compelled to work his upper lip carefully over his teeth and keep his head down as much as possible, but he had survived. The prospect of doing all this again and again until they reached Bombay was exhausting – and then what would school be but more of this, every single day? How dreadful.

He resisted the impulse to throw his arms around the older man’s sturdy waist – the highest point he could reach – and never let go. That wouldn’t do. _(What if Prabodh pushed him away? Farrokh didn’t think he could bear it.)_ Instead, he walked shyly next to his savior, hanging on every word out of his mouth. Until Farrokh suddenly realized he’d been asked a question. He stopped in his tracks, unable to form an answer without tripping over his own feet.

“How was your day?” Prabodh repeated patiently, gently. He’d told Farrokh all about his chores, the demanding passengers – especially the snobby Englishwomen traveling first-class. Now he wanted to hear about the nursery. About what his little charge had been up to.

And he’d have to tell. He’d have to tell about his new name.

“A – all right,” Farrokh stammered. “I drew pictures. For the – for the other b – boys.” He didn’t dare look up. Then Prabodh might see that he was still sad, and that would mean more questions that he didn’t want to answer. Farrokh wasn’t sure why, but he thought the steward might be disappointed in him. Papa would be. He couldn’t begin to guess the reason, but he would be.

A strong hand rested tenderly on his shoulder. “What’s the matter, little one? What happened?”

It was stupid. He shouldn’t be so upset. _(‘They were right,’ a nasty little voice sneered somewhere in his mind. ‘Your teeth are funny. They’re worse than funny; they’re ugly. Everyone will laugh at you – even Prabodh. Then he won’t want to be your friend anymore and you’ll be all alone.’)_ He mustn’t cry. He mustn’t. Just get it out, get it over with.

When Farrokh finally spoke, it was scarcely above a whisper. Prabodh had to lean down close to hear him at all. “Th – they called me ‘B – bucky’.”

Prabodh said nothing. Then the weight of his hand was gone. A sob shuddered through the little boy’s body before he could stop it. _(‘Don't leave me. Not again. Please, not again,’ he pleaded silently.)_ “Now, why would they do that?”

He wasn’t gone. _(Yet.)_ Farrokh kept his eyes down, hand twisting around his wrist to combat the temptation to grab desperately at the young man’s trousers, to make it so he couldn’t leave. “Be – because,” he whispered. “My teeth. They’re awful.”

A pause. He held his breath, tried to stop the tears from falling, but he couldn’t.

He felt fingers carefully take his chin. “Open your eyes, Farrokh.” Automatically, he obeyed. “Look at me.” The voice was firm but still kind. He peered tentatively up through his eyelashes. “Listen. You are a very handsome boy. And you have a lovely smile. It is a gift. When you are happy, you give your smile to others and they become happy, too. Do not let anyone steal your smile, steal your joy, from you. It is yours to give, not theirs to take.”

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, Farrokh’s face broke into a grin. _(‘He thinks I’m handsome!’ His heart pounded that rhythm loudly enough that he could hear. Maybe Prabodh could, too, but he was too overcome with joy to be embarrassed.)_

“There you are,” Prabodh smiled back. “Now, shall we go play some table tennis?”

Farrokh nodded vigorously, almost giddy, using the handkerchief his friend offered to wipe his eyes. He skipped along the deck, thumping feet mimicking his heart. _(‘He thinks I’m handsome! He thinks I’m handsome!’)_

-

The rest of the voyage flew past. He could barely sleep, so eager was he for the next day, when he’d spend the morning churning out drawings as quickly as he could in a futile attempt to make the afternoon come sooner. Glorious afternoons spent opposite his new friend – his best friend _(his only friend)_ – learning that he had a natural aptitude for table tennis – fine hand-eye coordination, quick reflexes, Prabodh said, making Farrokh’s chest swell with pride. And he only got better with practice! Soon he began to beat Prabodh easily; he could drown happily in the older man’s praise.

One day, Prabodh took him out to the ship’s bow, promising a glorious surprise was in store.

Farrokh’s stomach lurched.

There was a magnificent stone arch, bigger than any building he had ever seen before. It was beautiful. Ordinarily, its sheer size, the gleam of the sunlight reflecting from it, would have been enough to take the boy’s breath away.

“The Gateway of India,” Prabodh announced proudly. “Welcome to Mumbai!”

_Land._

-

Prabodh had given him a tight hug, lifting him off the vessel’s polished wood, before hurrying off to attend to the duties associated with their arrival to India. If Farrokh closed his eyes, he could imagine he still felt the embrace. Standing on the quay, waiting for his auntie to shepherd his small trunk and even smaller suitcase through customs, that comfort was sorely needed.

Nervous as he was, the hustle and bustle surrounding him was too fascinating to ignore. More people and noise and color than he’d encountered even at the market back home – even at Zanzibar Harbour – assaulted his senses. He felt a little thrill. Maybe this would be a marvelous adventure after all. If only he could find Prabodh, to tell his friend goodbye properly. To thank him. To bury his face in the older man’s chest one more time and feel that warmth and safety.

Farrokh scanned the sea of passengers and crew swarming in every direction, craning his neck and standing on tiptoe, as high as he could go. How on earth could he manage – but just then, there he was. 

He smiled broadly and raised his hand to wave, taking a deep breath in hopes of emitting a cry of “Prabodh!” that would be loud enough to hear over all this din.

But he stopped. His voice was snatched from his throat and he couldn’t have made a sound if he’d tried.

There was Prabodh. A woman, beautiful but plainly dressed, stood by his side, gazing at him with adoration. And there was a boy, maybe a little younger than Farrokh, but just about his size. Prabodh lifted the boy in his strong arms, holding him close, as he’d held Farrokh not an hour before. But this was different. This boy was not a stranger’s child he had been paid to be kind to and to pity; this was his son. This was his family.

_His son, who he loved._

Farrokh couldn’t bear to look anymore.

Auntie came striding back over, muttering under her breath about a particularly impertinent customs officer. “Are you ready, Farrokh?” she asked, her tone shifting to tenderness with remarkable speed.

He nodded, and, seeing the worry in his aunt’s eyes, he almost attempted a smile. But he couldn’t do it. There was a dull ache in his chest, throbbing with each beat of his heart. His upper lip carefully adjusted to cover his teeth, Farrokh lowered his gaze and held Auntie’s hand tightly as they walked away from the port. Now was the time to be brave. Tonight he would cry into his pillow again. This time, when he closed his eyes, he’d pretend it was Probodh.


	2. Remember Anyone Can Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter requires a big ol' trigger warning for corporal punishment. There's a great deal of general angst, but there are three separate instances where Freddie is physically punished by teachers.

Curiously, Farrokh didn’t mind sleeping in a dormitory with a dozen or more other boys. Privacy was a secondary concern at this point. He wasn’t alone. The sense of isolation was beginning to be too much for him to bear. Yes, this was loud. No, he didn’t care for all of his newly minted roommates. It could be utterly exhausting. He didn’t belong, really, but being on the outside of something was better than nothing. At least he could look in.

Maybe he did belong. Just a little. He had a nickname, didn’t he?

(It seemed like everyone took one look at him and decided not to bother with “Farrokh”. _Bucky. Bucky Bulsara._ Most of the boys didn’t say it with any malice. A few of them were quite friendly, in fact. But the name still made him feel like a bit of him was being chipped away every time, an infinitesimal, indefinable hurt. _Bucky. Bucky. Bucky._ The delicate structure built up by each “he thinks I’m handsome” crumbled to dust and debris. _Bucky. Bucky. Bucky._ )

One of the reasons Papa sent him away, he thought, might be that he was too sensitive. Farrokh felt things too keenly, experienced depths of emotion unfathomable to his father, and when it inevitably overwhelmed his small body, out it all burst – in giggles or in sobs. Now he no longer had the luxury of crying. Not unless he wanted to be called a baby, which he absolutely did not, thank you very much. Maybe if he wrote that he didn't cry so much anymore in the one weekly letter to his parents he was allowed, he could go home.

He doubted it.

Besides, he did still cry. Most nights. Just very, very quietly.

-

“Bucky!” A boy older than Farrokh smiled broadly, gesturing towards the empty seat next to him at the breakfast table.

Farrokh hesitantly occupied it. He ought to be grateful and respond with friendliness, but his throat ran dry and panic rose in his chest whenever he attempted to raise his gaze from the plate of thepla and yoghurt before him. “Thanks,” he managed.

“I heard you’re from Zanzibar. What’s that like, then?” An expectant look bored into him as Farrokh took a deep breath and attempted to formulate a response (without too much stammering and try not to lisp, _please_ ).

A shout from further down the table interrupted his labors. “Oi! Bucky! He’s speaking to you!” was followed by “Can he talk?” and a chorus of derisive laughter. He tried not to react physically and willed tears back into their ducts, but the little flinch he gave at the sound of his new soubriquet was apparently perceptible. Or his neighbor was more aware than anyone else at this school seemed to be, operating closer to Farrokh’s own wavelength. That was a rarity in itself. In any case, the jeering abruptly, mercifully came to a halt. (How had the other boy managed that, without so much as making a sound? Farrokh was certainly relieved, but now his ever-inventive anxiety quickly latched on to a new cause. Maybe this boy was meaner than all the rest put together.)

“You don’t like being called that, do you?” The boy’s voice was gentle, quiet. Farrokh shook his head emphatically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” Shocked, Farrokh finally looked up, two pairs of brown eyes meeting and reflecting their warmth to one another. He hadn’t expected an apology. “My name’s Ramavatar, but everyone just calls me ‘Ram’. What’s yours?”

“Farrokh. But there’s no point telling them that. If they don’t just keep calling me – _that_ – they’ll only say it ‘Faroukh’ anyway.”

Ram hummed, appreciating the dilemma. “Well… I suppose to some people it won’t matter what you want, because they _haven’t any manners_ ” – he raised his voice pointedly, silencing the whispers that still flurried among their tablemates – “but most of us really don’t mean to hurt your feelings. We just didn’t know any better, that’s all.” After another moment’s thought, he asked, “What would you like to be called?”

“You mean – I ought to just – “

“Choose something,” Ram finished. “Why not? All this is new for you anyway. You can be whoever you want to be. No one here’ll be any the wiser.”

That was true, he supposed. It was a rather thrilling prospect. “Freddie,” he said firmly, surprising himself with his sudden determination. “I’ll be ‘Freddie’.”

“Nice to meet you, Freddie.” Ram shook his hand with a bright smile, and then proceeded to use his knife to tap a handy glass of orange juice, calling the table to attention. “Everyone! Everyone? This is Freddie Bulsara.”

Farrokh grinned broadly, heart hammering so hard against his ribcage he thought he might faint. It wasn’t the fear this time; now he had an almost giddy optimism coursing through his veins and he was almost vibrating with it. He could be whoever he wanted to be.

But his keen ears discerned a “Bucky” or two amidst the sociable chatter that now endeavored to include him. This newfound freedom had its limits: his soaring heart reached the end of its lead and jerked earthwards with a snap.

-

The first time was more a shock than anything else. Freddie, jaw hanging open very unattractively, couldn’t believe the effrontery of this man, this _employee_ – not even a proper teacher – striking him across the face. No one had ever hit him before. Well, he supposed Kashmira had, but she was only a baby and it didn’t really count. Mummy would never, and she’d never let Nanny either. Nanny would have been fired straightaway if she had even thought of doing such a thing. Resorting to physical violence was completely unnecessary for Papa; he didn’t have time for it. And why bother, when a withering glower or a harsh, bellowed word could cut his son to the quick just as easily with so much less effort, so much less fuss? Papa didn’t care for fuss.

It was a curious sensation: the nerves on his cheek tingled, prickling but almost numb to the pain. He was too taken aback to cry. In fact, he didn’t want to cry. This wasn’t fair. Freddie hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d only been fidgeting with his pencil, drumming it in metronomic rhythm against the already-nicked wood of his desk. The point of spending an entire games period indoors so that the byzantine rules of cricket could be delineated to the class eluded him. Who wanted to play cricket anyway? Anything that took this long to explain, especially a game, couldn’t possibly be worth doing.

Yes, he’d heard the instructor shush him once – and he’d stopped. But Mr. Owen droned on and on about wickets and overs and centuries and some nonsense about “square legs”. Freddie couldn’t help but start to tap again.

He refused to be cowed by such an impossibly dull man.

He’d really rather not be sent to the headmaster, though.

By way of a compromise, he gingerly set his pencil down, keeping his chin up and shoulders back: defiant in posture, if not in action. His hands twisted silently in his lap.

At the end of the lesson, Freddie still didn’t have the remotest idea how one played cricket.

-

He daydreamed and doodled in maths. It started, as it usually did, with incomprehensible scribbles and then eventually became something about faeries, like those he’d read about in _Peter Pan_ and _Puck of Pook’s Hill_ , but he was one of them – even smaller than he was already, hiding among vibrant flowers and only emerging to play tricks on the boys who teased and masters who bullied. Of course, he couldn’t draw half of that. Certainly not with dull, gray strokes of his pencil. He could see it all so clearly, though. And it was lovely. No one made fun of him, because they were all peculiar the same way he was. He didn’t have to –

A white-hot flash of pain across his knuckles meant he’d been found out again, the teacher’s ruler slamming down with no warning. “Sorry, sir,” he said. And it would echo back to him in the corridors, each imitation of his lisp a little crueler than the last, all the way to the dormitory that night, he could hear it already.

“That’s the fourth time this period, Bulsara,” Mr. Thomas sighed, clearly feeling put-upon. “What is all this nonsense?” Freddie would have imagined, as Mr. Thomas reached down to grab the papers strewn all across his desk, that his heart would be going a mile a minute and his breaths would be coming fast and shallow. Instead, it felt like everything just – stopped – except for the teacher’s hand, slowly, inexorably towards his doom.

Then, before he knew what was happening, he heard a shrill cry – “No!” – and someone grabbed Mr. Thomas’s wrist tightly, holding it away from the drawings. It took a moment for him to realize _he’d_ done this. He had to. They wouldn’t understand, any of them. A couple of the boys in the year above had already called him a faerie while he’d been waiting for Ram to finish changing after practice for junior school’s First XI and now everyone would. If Freddie couldn’t have his little world of make-believe, if that was taken from him, there would be no place for him to go where everything was all right. Where he was all right. No escape. And he needed that as badly as he needed oxygen (as badly as he needed Mummy, but he couldn’t have her).

Mr. Thomas looked like he was about to explode, his face growing redder by the second. “Up, boy.” He didn’t shout, but this was somehow much more frightening. “Let’s see if you’ve been paying any attention to your lessons. Three by two. What’s that come to, Bulsara?”

“Six, sir,” Freddie whispered.

“Louder!”

“Six, sir.” He stared rigidly at his shoes, dark against the linoleum tiles. Maybe he’d wake with a start and find this was all one of his awful dreams.

“Four by nine.”

“Thirty-six, sir.” There were snickers around the room as he struggled to get the words out, to make them anything but an impenetrable forest of “th’s”. And he realized what Mr. Thomas was doing with mounting horror.

“Six by eleven.”

“Six – sixty-six, sir.” The others’ laughter was growing more difficult to stifle. Freddie wished he’d never been born.

Mr. Thomas, clearly growing bored with his little game, delivered the killing blow. “Thirteen by thirty-two.”

Blinking hard, Freddie’s mind worked furiously, desperately trying to work it out. What good that could possibly do, he’d no idea, but maybe it would help somehow.

_Nothing._

Nothing came to his mind.

_He was nothing._

_Nothing. Nothing. Nothing._

“I – I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” He was sorry. He was so incredibly sorry. Maybe that was all, and it could be over now. He doubted it very much.

“Right. Headmaster’s office for you, Bulsara. Six of the best should get your head out of the clouds – put an end to this rubbish.” There went his drawings, crumpled into a ball and lobbed with awful precision into the wastepaper bin. His chest felt hollow. Freddie knew he had a heart, because he could hear it beating, percussive and oppressive in his ears; he knew he had a stomach, because it couldn’t possibly have disappeared so suddenly. But his terror was such that he couldn’t even be sick, couldn’t even panic.

Before he realized it, Freddie was in the hall, putting one foot in front of the other. Then he was rapping his still-stinging knuckles against teak. Then he was bent over a desk. Then there was pain.

Then, somehow, he was back in the dormitory. He couldn’t sit down or lie down properly – even being on his side hurt. But he could bury his face in his too-hard pillow and sob, and that was all he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

Papa hated him. He had to, to have sent Freddie to this awful place. But why? What had he done? What that was wrong with him could lashes – it could have been six, like Mr. Thomas said, but it felt like many, many more – from a rattan cane fix? Freddie didn’t hate Papa. He certainly didn’t hate Mummy, who obviously didn’t know about any of this. She couldn’t. Mummy would never let this happen. Never. Mummy loved him.

But she sent him away. The new baby came, and she sent him away. It was Papa who really wanted to, but she didn’t stop him. That “something wrong” – whatever Papa saw – she saw it too. And she didn’t like it either. If he’d been better, if he hadn’t needed to be fixed, he could have stayed with them. He would have been good enough to love.

_It was his fault. All his fault._

The only one Freddie could hate was himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a horrible, horrible person for writing this, and I promise Freddie will be a bit happier by the end of this story.
> 
> Also, the title of the whole work, as well as each chapter, is from the song "Pretend", specifically as performed by Nat King Cole. It's wonderful and you should listen to it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be an attempt to explore Freddie's childhood as realistically as possible, based on the very little information available. Obviously, pretty much all of this, beyond the most basic facts, is going to be completely made up. This period of his life is rather neglected, but I find it utterly fascinating and it's so vital to the man he ultimately became. The poor boy is going to suffer, though. (Yes, I feel awful about putting him through the wringer. Anything else would ring false, unfortunately) I hope this isn't complete rubbish and that you enjoy! Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are welcome.
> 
> Thanks to LydianNode for the wholly unwarranted (but lovely) encouragement!


End file.
